Bloody Dawn
by The Flying Hobbo
Summary: A victorious but bitter Harry Potter is turned a few days after his "triumph" and enters a whole new mess - then again, hasn't he always been Fate's favourite whipping boy? HP/Twilight crossover
1. Prologue: Mourner's Eve

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Twilight ( insert all that other stuff I'm too lazy to write).

**Bloody Dawn**

**Prologue: Mourner's Eve**

The night was quiet and peaceful, as if everything was right in the world – and that, more than anything else, was why Harry James Potter had a half-empty bottle of scotch in his hand. Sitting on the edge of Grimmauld Place's roof, his legs dangling pleasantly in the emptiness, Harry wondered when everything had gone to hell as he took another gulp from the bottle. He'd won, in the end – like he'd once told Scrimgeour, he'd chosen to be Dumbledore's man through and through and the Professor had not disappointed. When all things were said and done Voldemort had fallen to the ground, felled by his own curse and leaving Harry the uncontested master of the Elder Wand. For a moment, looking at Voldemort's corpse, he'd thought everything would turn out well and he'd indulged in a rare moment of pure happiness.

"Should have known better," he muttered to the sky, "The Dursleys taught me to wait for the other shoe to drop, shouldn't have forgotten."

It was one of those little cruelties of fate that the first sight he'd taken in after the Dark Lord's dead body was that of another corpse – that of a young woman, around his age, with bushy brown hair. Death had frozen her features in the look of fierce determination he'd come to associate with Hermione during their hunt for the Horcruxes. Not a foot farther was a mangled corpse sporting the unmistakeable red mop of hair of the final member of the Golden Trio: Ron had died taking a cutting curse aimed at Hermione, he'd later learned, and she herself been hit by the little green light that had taken so many of his loved ones a second later.

Listening at the muted sound of the festivities raging below him in Grimmauld Place, Harry leaned back tiredly. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen – the three of them were supposed to survive, and he'd get back with Ginny and in thirty years there would be two families and a crowd of laughing kids. _He_ was the one supposed to give his life for this imbecilic war, not them.

Taking a swig of the bottle with a vengeance - and coughing more than a little afterwards, he wasn't used to drinking alcohol this strong – the Boy-Who-Lived glared at the stars. It wasn't right that the night was so beautiful when Ron and Hermione weren't there to see it. It should have been raining; lightning should have torn at the earth and wind screamed in fury. The heavens should have been weeping for them. His own eyes were dry, now, and he wasn't sure he had any tears left to spill. The laughs and music coming from downstairs made him want to snarl but he'd never been one to show emotion in public– he took another gulp instead, aiming to get drunk enough that he wouldn't miss them so acutely.

"Why aren't you downstairs with the others?" a curious voice asked from his left.

Nearly jumping out of his skin in surprise – he hadn't heard anyone coming to sit next to him – the green-eyed teenager's head swivelled in the direction the words had come from. His stare fell on what appeared to be a young girl around thirteen years old, with short dark brown hair and dark eyes. She was stunningly beautiful, exuding a strange mixture of innocence and sensuality that no one her age should be able to. Harry looked away after a second, not wanting to stare, and answered in an irritable tone.

"Why aren't _you_? For that matter, how did you even get up her, I thought that…"

Looking at the trap that had given him access to the roof, he saw it was still closed, his wand carelessly laying next to it – he'd cast a Locking charm on it so he wouldn't be disturbed. Then how had she… His thoughts were interrupted by an amused chuckle, and the teenager turned to snap at her only to notice a slight detail – her eyes weren't dark, as he'd first thought, they were a deep tone of burgundy. His hazy mind whirled and pieces clicked into place: inhuman beauty, red eyes and unexplained appearance on top of a building… _Vampire_. Absent-mindedly, Harry noted he was very likely going to die before the night was done.

"Oh, that would explain it," he answered his own question, a bit lamely.

The Boy-Who-Lived scrambled for something original to say before being brutally murdered but most of what he came up with sounded suspiciously like things Luna would say – looking for a culprit, he glared balefully at the bottle in his left hand.

"Aren't you going to run?" the vampire asked with what sounded like vague curiosity.

Surprised by the distinct lack of painful demise he was feeling, Harry looked at the immortal girl who was waiting for his answer, faintly amused by the looks of it. She certainly asked a lot of questions, for a blood-sucking monster. Maybe she just liked playing with her food; Dudley had been like that too.

"That would be rather pointless, wouldn't it?" he answered with a raised eyebrow, "You can kill me faster than I can blink – I'd rather die looking at the stars than struggling pathetically."

Silence greeted his words and Harry started to feel a bit awkward. A voice that sounded a lot like Ms. Weasley started to berate him for his manners and he put down the scotch with a sigh.

"I'd offer you a glass, but I doubt your kind actually drinks. Actually, can you even get drunk anymore?" he asked with genuine curiosity.

The girl let out a sharp bark of laughter.

"No, we cannot."

"Eternity sober, now there's an awful thought," the green-eyed teenager answered with a derisive snort.

"You are not afraid of death," the vampire said, and it was more of a statement than a question.

"Been there, done that," Harry answered nonchalantly as seven years of Voldemort-induced flippancy in the face of doom kicked in.

It was a bit disturbing how delighted the immortal seemed to be at his attitude: she smiled widely in the first show of emotion she'd made so far that wasn't condescending. She drifted closer to him and the young wizard could only watch, hypnotized by her cherubic face. He felt a soft breath near the pulse point of his neck and his heart's beating stilled, something like terror freezing his limbs.

"What is your name, mortal?" she whispered near his ear, making him shiver.

"Harry Potter," he answered before he could stop himself.

"If you survive, Harry Potter, seek me in Volterra. Your future lies there," she told him softly before he felt a stab of hurt in his neck and everything disappeared into a blaze of pain.

--------------------------

Somewhere in British Columbia, Alice Cullen jerked suddenly, her eyes glazing over. Every eye in the room was suddenly watching her, the six other vampires wondering what kind of vision would be strong enough to elicit that kind of reaction out of her. Edward looked confused even as he read her mind, recognizing nothing he'd ever seen before – the others simply waited for the small vampire to composer herself. She grinned impishly, a look all of them had come to recognize as a sign of coming trouble – or a shopping spree of epic proportions.

"It's nothing soon, but we'll have a new addition to the family," she informed them, the smile never leaving her lips.

**Author's Note:**

Yup, I had Harry changed by Jane - I don't think that's been done before, so yay for originality. For people who expect Harry to jump in directly with the Cullens, that's not going to happen for a while, he'll learn how to deal with his abilities and a few other things first. Another thing, for those who expect slash you're going to be disappointed: I've got nothing against it, but it's not exactly my cup of tea. Besides, the sheer number of Edward/Harry fics out there makes want to gag, something a little different won't hurt.


	2. Chapter One: Learning Experiences

**Author's Note:**

Isebas - the only two I've found so far were _Fading Light _by The Morrigu_,_ a Harry/Alice/Jasper and _Darkest Hour_ by Arsonphobia _,_ also a Harry/Alice/Jasper.

**Chapter One: Learning Experiences**

Harry had always considered himself someone who was well acquainted with pain.

He'd started to learn about it the first time Dudley gave him a punch in the stomach, and his education had continued throughout most of his childhood: if his knees were constantly scraped, most people assumed that he was accident-prone, not that his whale of a cousin delighted in tripping him every occasion he got. Pain had been a frequent companion, if never a really harsh one: while his Uncle had never been tender with him, he'd never raised a hand on him either. The man seemed to be satisfied with the random violence Dudley dished out on a daily basis.

His study had continued when he'd entered the Wizarding World – magic could do great things, was it not to be expected that great pain was one of them? The horrible sensation of burning he'd felt when touching Quirell had allowed him to sneer derisively at Dudley's pathetic attempts that summer –how he could have ever been afraid of the fat child was beyond him.

The Chamber of Secrets had been the key to another experience – Harry still had the scar from where the Basilisk had bitten him, the venom spreading in his veins like wildfire before Fawkes shed a tear on the wound. The year Sirius had escaped had also been the entrance of Dementors – their torment was entirely mental, but there was a reason that they were his boggart's shape. Fourth Year had introduced him to a whole other playing field – Voldemort's Cruciatus had haunted his dreams for a time, until the Department of Mysteries: Riddle's possession of his body was the only incident that had truly made him want to die, to be killed if only because the sensation would end.

The following years had brought their own load of scars, but never again something of that magnitude. Harry had thought he'd learned all there was to learn and that supposition had brought him a twisted sense of satisfaction: throughout all those years, never once had he screamed no matter what they'd thrown at him. As the third ragged scream of the night tore at his throat, the green-eyed teenager learned that he'd been arrogant in his assumption.

Pain wasn't enough of a word to describe what he felt right now – acid ran through his veins, pure and undiluted. Every other sensation had been taken away from him, he wouldn't even have been able to tell he was breathing if not for the hoarse sounds his throat made when he did. His magic was writhing and twisting like a snake inside of him, struggling against whatever was happening to him. _What has she done to me?_ Darkness swallowed him and he welcomed unconsciousness and the relief that went with it.

---

His eyes opened after what seemed like an eternity. The difference immediately struck him – everything was clearer, sharper, as if a veil that was blurring everything had been lifted. Feeling the soft bed under him, the wizard propped himself up and inhaled sharply, idly noting this was the first time he'd taken a breath since he'd awoken. The maelstrom of scents that entered his nose was hard to process – he could smell every fragrance in the room, from the soft, polished aroma of the old wood to the dead scent that emanated from the whole house.

Recognizing the green and silver decorations, Harry wondered how he'd wound up in Regulus Black's old room. Getting up rather more gracefully than he was used to, the teenager's eyes swept to the night drawer next to his bed, where his glasses lay. He blinked at that – if his glasses were there, how did he see so well? Reaching for them, he saw with shock that his hand's skin was much paler than before. A realization was dawning in the back of his mind but he pushed it back, putting on his glasses on more by habit than anything else and walking to the room's only mirror. A gasp escaped his lips when his reflection greeted him with almost glowing bloody eyes.

"She bloody well turned me," he whispered in shock.

"Master is awake!" a voice came from behind him, sounding relieved.

Harry turned towards the intruder with inhuman speed, forcing himself to repress the feral snarl that cam on his lips. A new smell spread in the room, foul and disgusting to his new sensibilities – it was something like dirt, unwashed clothes and decomposing flesh – as he faced Kreacher, who was looking at him with relief. A burn flared to life in Harry's throat, venom pooling in his mouth. The wizard knew what he needed; he'd studied the texts in Defence Against the Dark Arts: "_Newborn vampires experience a violent craving for blood, flying into uncontrollable rage when it is denied to them."_

Grasping the wall to prevent himself from ripping Kreacher apart – he heard the plaster crack and break under his fingers – Harry managed to utter a few words.

"Get… get me blood," he croaked to the house-elf who gave him a terrified stare and disappeared with a popping sound.

Every second felt like an hour, the teenager could feel his every instinct screaming out for him to start hunting and sate his thirst. Falling back to his Occlumency lessons, he tried to clear his mind like Snape had bullied and badgered him into doing – it helped, for a brief instant, but it was a losing battle and the thirst was slowly but surely overpowering his restraint. Kreacher popped back into existence, a dark bottle sealed by the Black family crest in his hands. Harry tore it from his grasp and brutally tore through the wax seal with his teeth, letting the liquid flow in his mouth with savage pleasure.

After a few minutes, the teenager was finally able to calm himself down and he fell heavily into the closest padded chair. Letting out a tired sigh – this was too much for a single day, even for him – he turned his ruby-coloured eyes to the house-elf. Kreacher was still standing still, clearly terrified but unwilling to leave.

"How long was I… _indisposed_?" he asked, not willing to put a word on exactly what had happened to him.

He didn't want to face reality just yet, and if twisting words around allowed him to avoid that for a few more moments he would indulge himself. A ghost of a smile graced his lips when he realized how very Slytherin that thought was.

"Four days, Master. The nasty blood-traitors and mudbloods left when I told them to, no one saw Master sick," the elf muttered.

Harry frowned at the elf's use of the offensive terms, but he figured he wasn't really in a position to judge – he'd just drank rather fervently what was, according to the label on the bottle, a few ounces of centaur blood. That there was an actual bottle of centaur blood stocked in the house told him a lot more about Sirius's family than he wanted to know. Shaking his head as if to get rid of the idle thoughts, the newly turned vampire focused on the issue at hand. A lot of things had changed overnight – could he even remain in the Wizarding World? He couldn't do magic anymore, that much he already knew: the ever-present feeling of power at his fingertips had vanished. He was dead, and magic was a thing for the living – a corpse, even a wizard's corpse, wouldn't be able to use a wand.

Vampires weren't liked by wizards, to put it mildly – they were persecuted worse than werewolves ever had been, mostly because they were almost impossible to kill. Wizards hated feeling like they weren't in control, Harry knew all too well, and vampires were one of the only species of magical creatures that had never bent the knee to the Ministry. From what little he'd listened in History of Magic, he'd gathered that wizards and vampires avoided each other as much as possible, content to pretend the other community didn't exist.

A vicious smile bloomed on Harry's face when he imagined what the public's reaction at the knowledge that he'd become a vampire would be – yet while he entertained the thought for a few seconds, he knew he would not go through with it. He'd never been one to make a mess when he could avoid it, and the whole affair would be more trouble than it was worth. Besides, what did he have left here that was worth fighting for?

Ron and Hermione were dead, so were Remus, Tonks and so many others. Ginny, then? She'd started dropping rather heavy hints that she would like to get back together before his friend's corpses were cold. Sighing once more, Harry had to recognize he wasn't being exactly fair with her. She'd let him grieve alone for a while before trying to comfort him, but it still felt like she was clinging to him to fill the hole in her affections left by the many deaths. And that wasn't even the main issue: would he ever be able to be near her without wanting her blood? No, Ginny Weasley was better off without him, and so were the other Weasleys. He'd already cost them enough family members as it was.

"Kreacher," he said gently, watching the house-elf snap to attention, "I need you to do something for me."

"Kreacher serves the Most Noble House of Black," he answered proudly.

"I need you to get a large amount of gold from my vault in Gringotts and change it to muggle currency," Harry continued.

"Kreacher doesn't think he can do that," the elf answered doubtfully.

The vampire that had once been Harry Potter gave him a half-smile.

"Then I suggest you bring me a quill and parchment so that I can write the necessary authorisations," the teenager answered with a raised eyebrow.

The house-elf snapped a salute and was about to pop out of existence when Harry stopped him again.

"And bring me another bottle if you can drudge one up, I _am_ getting rather thirsty."

**Author's Note:**

Hm, not a very eventful chapter but a necessary one - it would be OOC for Harry to just leave without pondering it a little, as I've seen him do in so many stories. For people who think his reaction isn't very... er reactionary? Well, let's give the guy some credit, he's been living with wizards for seven years - his level of tolerance for the unexpected is pretty spectacular. Besides, he hasn't seen the gritty side of being a vampire yet.


	3. Chapter Two: Harsh Realities

**Chapter Three: Harsh Realities**

Harry looked at the entrance hall of Grimmauld Place for what might be the last time, a large duffle bag slung nonchalantly over his shoulder. He couldn't say he was fond of the house – too many bad memories associated with it – but he attached a certain emotional value to it: most of his time with his godfather had been spent there. Passing a hand through his hair – it was still just as messy, he noted wryly, his turning hadn't made combing it any less of a lost cause – the vampire spared a nod for Kreacher before calmly walking out the door. He'd told the house-elf to prevent anyone's entrance while he was gone: 12 Grimmauld Place would remain sealed under the servant's watchful gaze until he returned.

If he ever did.

He'd waited until nightfall to come out, having discovered earlier during the day that his skin seemed to sparkle under the sun, as if it was made of diamonds – it was rather unmanly, he'd mused when he'd recovered from the shock. The red-eyed teenager greeted the outside with a sharp breath, inhaling the thousand of scents that made London. Many of them were human, and he felt the burn in his throat flare sharply, venom pooling again in his mouth. Harry let out a string of curses that would have given Mrs Weasley a heart attack – he'd learned them from listening to Sirius, bless his soul. That the thirst was this strong after he'd gorged himself on blood less than an hour ago was bad news. He needed to go away until he could control himself, somewhere without much people. Thankfully the street was deserted; otherwise he wasn't sure he would have been able to reign in his instincts. Fidgeting a little, he adjusted his grip on the duffle bag. It was about time, he decided with a nervous smile, to see exactly how fast he could go with this new body of his.

The loud crack of the pavement under his foot was a sign that perhaps he was being a little _too_ enthusiastic in his experimentation, but as he sped into the alleyways he found that he hardly cared – the feel of the wind on his face was glorious, it was almost as exhilarating as playing Quidditch. If this was what it meant to be a vampire, perhaps the transition wouldn't be as agonizing as he'd thought it would be. Avoiding the larger streets – in a city the size London, they were bound to be crowded even at this late hour – he stuck to the shadows as he ran. It took his surprisingly little time to get out of London proper, but as everything was a little blurry around him he assumed that the level of speed he'd attained was truly frightening. His pace became a little more leisurely as he reached the suburbs, slowing until he simply walked when houses became sparer. The red-eyed teenager grinned – he wasn't tired at all after all this, he wasn't even sure he _could_ get tired anymore. For the first time in years, Harry felt entirely free.

He was about to begin running again when his nose caught a scent – his throat burned ferociously and he felt his body turning towards its origin. A soft beating sound came to his ears, singing enticingly to his instincts: it was the sound of a human heart, Harry realized with dread. His limbs seemed out of his control as he dropped his bag to the ground and crept towards his prey, silently and unhurriedly, enjoying the thrill of the hunt.  
_No, I can't, I won't!  
_Gritting his teeth, the teenager struggled desperately for what Snape had taught him during his fifth year.  
"_Clear your mind, Potter_," murmured his teacher's cold voice from his memories, "_Let go of all emotion._"  
But the scent was too much, too strong, and his body kept moving. He could feel something feral inside of him that was enjoying this, enjoying his frantic attempts to delay the inevitable.  
_I can beat this! I've resisted the bloody Imperius, I can control myself!  
_A nasty, inhuman smirk twisted his lips as he savoured the cool feel of the air on his skin, watching a girl around his age, with plaited red hair that reminded him of Ginny, turn the corner of the street.  
_No, not this,__ please! Anything but this!  
_She looked at him for a second, wonder on her face, and he blurred into movement. Before she could even blink, his teeth were deep into her neck, relishing the taste of her blood in his mouth. Her eyes fluttered a second and she seemed to let out a sigh. The vampire bled her dry during what seemed like an eternity, before messily tearing his mouth out of her. Blood dripped on chin and neck. The red haze that had gripped his mind slowly faded away and Harry was left with the horror of what he'd just done.

He'd killed an innocent for no other reason than to indulge himself. He'd enjoyed it, relished it like nothing else in his life.

He'd become, he realized in an epiphany a thousand times keener than the Cruciatus, just like Voldemort.

A wave of revulsion and self-loathing overtook him as he wiped the dripping blood on his sleeve, refusing to look at the corpse he'd let slump on the ground like dead weight.  
_Stop being a bloody coward, Potter_, he snarled mentally, _look! Look at what you've done!  
_He turned his ruby eyes to the corpse, sweeping over the pale skin that death had made even paler. Gore spattered her neck like a necklace and her eyes, an uncanny tone of blue, had become glassy. Shame flared in him and he felt like running away to escape the sight, but he forced himself to stay and look at her. To never forget just what he'd done, how he'd become a monster.  
Harry remembered with disgust the sensation of freedom he'd enjoyed earlier while running through the streets: the price for that _freedom_ was at his foot, no longer breathing. He felt like weeping, but no tears would come to his eyes – he didn't think he could even cry anymore. Letting out a soft, bitter laugh at that, he slowly stood up and picked up the corpse more gently than he had anything in his life.

He laid her down under a tree, closing her eyes almost tenderly under the dim light of the stars. She might have looked like she was sleeping, if not for the bloody wound at her neck, an obscene flaw on her creamy skin.

"Never again," he whispered to himself, knowing it was a lie the second it left his mouth.

Closing his eyes in shame, Harry sped off and disappeared into the night, bound for the north.

---

The next few days were strange for him – he travelled only at night, not wanting to get caught with his highly unpractical glittery skin as he was still in civilized territory. He'd originally planned to sleep while the sun was up, only to realize that, well, he didn't actually sleep anymore. That left him with a lot of free time on his hand, something that might not have been so bad had he not murdered someone in cold blood the night before – musing on that particular subject wasn't something he particularly wanted to do. Especially if he was going to end up doing it again sooner or later.

Trying to put his mind on other matters, he instead started planning out what he would do next – he'd had the vague design to go north into the wilder lands, possibly into Scotland, but nothing precise so far. The more he though about it, however, the more he became uncomfortable with the idea of staying in England – the Wizarding World would launch a search for him soon enough, and he'd really prefer being out of the country when that happened. Most spells to locate him would fail now that he was technically dead – he knew for a fact that owls would simply fly around confused and return to their owners – but there were a few methods that might still work if he was close enough.

Meaning he was left with the decision of where he would go. France was tempting; from the way he'd heard it described by Fleur so many times it sounded like a beautiful place – on the other hand, the only words he knew in French were swear words and he'd stick out like a sore thumb for anybody that looked for him. He wasn't really tempted with the eastern part of Europe, mostly, he admitted to himself, because Durmstrang had left him a bad impression. Should he go south, then, towards Spain or Italy?

"_If you survive, Harry Potter, seek me in Volterra. Your future lies there"_

The words drifted at the surface of his mind and he frowned, having a hard time placing them. His memories were a bit hazy since his turning, he had to focus to remember details. The teenager's eyes narrowed when he remembered exactly who he'd heard them from: the bitch that'd bitten him.

"Definitely not Italy then," he muttered with a glower towards what he thought was the general direction of that country.

He'd issue an apology to the Italians if that place proved to be in another country, but until proven the contrary he'd assume it was – Volterra sounded very Italian-ish, he justified himself mentally. Noting he'd crossed out most of Continental Europe, Harry realized there was actually something much closer: Ireland. Irish wizards were rather fiercely independent from the English ones, so he doubted a search would be allowed even if he was located – the Irish Ministry would most likely deny the English one purely to spite it.

He had no lack of funds at the moment: Kreacher had emptied the almost entirety of his vault – apparently it was against the law to empty it all at once, and Merlin knew he'd already antagonized the goblins enough that he didn't want to push the issue. The whole breaking-into-Gringotts-and-'borrowing'-your-dragon thing hadn't gone over too well, Harry considered himself lucky they hadn't just seized his assets in retaliation. The point was that he did not foresee any monetary problems for a few years: his parents had accumulated a good amount of money themselves and his father had inherited a tidy sum from his own parents, leaving the teenager comfortable for around a decade if he was reasonable.

The immediate future being somewhat planned out, he still had the issue of his crushing boredom to deal with – playing solitary with his pack of cards got old after the first seven hours. Realizing that without Quidditch and flying he didn't really have many hobbies left, he decided to steal a page from Hermione's book and visited a bookstore. Luckily the thirst seemed to have been sated for a while with the girl's death, so he managed to get a few books without having too many homicidal urges – his throat burned a little, of course, but he managed to ignore it. The few volumes he'd read before had either been schoolwork or about Quidditch, so he picked a bit of everything – he made sure to take something by Shakespeare, though, as Hermione seemed to have enjoyed him greatly. Besides, he'd heard Dudley whine a few times about writing a report on some of his plays, so there was bound to be something interesting in them. Things seemed more peaceful now, and he began to think he could stave off the thirst indefinitely by hunting some small animal game, mostly rabbits and birds.

He lasted another two days before his control slipped and he killed a lone farmer who was out late at night. Gritting his teeth, Harry cleaned up after himself and pushed north again, away from everything human.

**Author's Note:**

A semblance of plot appears - things are going to pick up pretty soon, the introduction part of the fic is done. Yes, I'm making Harry _read_ - Mr. Potter is getting an education, he won't be completely ignorant by the time he meets other vampires. Harry's starting to understand exactly what it means to be a newborn vampire, but as I tend to despise ansgty!Harry don't expect him to make another appearance for a while.


	4. Chapter Three: Master of Death

**Chapter Three: Master Of Death**

England's wilderness was a lot tamer than he would have expected – there truly wasn't much left undomesticated on the island. Harry had run during several hours after his second lapse in control, only stopping when he entered what looked like a series of hills. According the map he'd bought at the bookstore, he was somewhere at the south-east of Manchester, near a location named the Hope Woodlands. That name never failed to get a sardonic smile out of him – hope was not something he coined easily these days.

Trying to vary his diet a little, the teenager stopped his campaign of extermination on the local rabbits and aimed for bigger game – deer or the occasional sheep that wandered off from the local herds. It was easier to feed solely on animals when there was no civilized presence: there was no comparison to be made and he didn't have to endure the enticing scent of humans. Reading, he discovered during the long hours, was actually quite an enjoyable experience – he could understand why Hermione had always kept her nose buried in a book, even if he would never be as enthusiastic about it as she'd been. Ignoring the clenching in his chest that the memory of his dead friends always brought, he dug deeper in the volumes to distract himself.

Murder mysteries held little attraction for him – they reminded him quite uncomfortably of his current situation – but he was fascinated by history books. It was to be expected, he supposed, as he was now more or less immortal: chances were that he would eventually see history being made with his own eyes. The philosophical treaties he'd gotten caused him more headaches than anything else, as they kept referring to thinkers he'd never actually read before: it made him realize exactly how flawed his education was, now that he was no longer a wizard. All in all, it was Shakespeare he enjoyed the most: given, the language was quite old, but no older than some of the volumes he'd used for research back at Hogwarts. Hamlet in particular struck a cord as the socially inadequate, sarcastic prince was someone Harry could identify with.

His voluntary exile lasted a month before he ran out of both books and patience, but Harry was convinced his self-control was much stronger than it had been – he'd only killed two humans in the whole month, and he'd come across more than five during his stay. The teenager thought bitterly that he'd never anticipated there would be a day he'd congratulate himself on killing _only_ two people, but then again he hadn't quite seen his present situation coming, had he?

--

The trip back to London was as pleasant as the previous one: Harry didn't think he'd ever get tired of running so fast, the wind whistling around him. On the bright side, he didn't make a murder stop this time - though he'd slipped the day before on a hiker, so it might just have been that he was already sated. So much for the 'better self-control' theory. Luckily enough, his passport had been renewed last summer – Uncle Vernon had tried to convince him to leave the country, apparently reasoning that if he was so important to the 'freaks', then they'd follow him and leave his family alone. Dear Vernon had been roughly disabused of the notion by the Order, but the end result was that Harry's papers were in order.

The flight took a little over an hour, but the journey was less taxing on his restraint than he'd expected – maybe he really was getting better at disciplining himself after all. Exiting the terminal in Belfast, the vampire drifted towards the nearest bank so he could change his pounds and set off in search of a house. The vampire was, for better or worse, going to live in Ireland for a while - it might as well be comfortable.

--

After a day's search, he came across an interesting offer in the local newspapers and ended up renting a little house out of the city proper – good, it meant less people and hence less temptation. The accent left him a little bewildered in the beginning but he got used to it after a while: it was like dealing with a country of Seamus Finningans. The old couple he was renting the house from was a little dubitative at first because of his age, but seemed convinced enough when he paid the first six months cash and in advance. Thus began Harry's reclusive life in Ireland.

He rarely left the house during the day – if he was supposed to be the ultimate predator, why the hell did he have sparkly skin? Unpractical much? – and the nights were used for hunting or expanding his library. The 'library' in question was more of a glorified series of shelves, but he was still inordinately proud of it. It was, he'd realized after a few weeks, one of the few things he could say he'd come to own by himself. Not an inheritance from his parents or a gift from his friends, these books were something he'd bought for himself of his own choice. It wasn't something he was used to, but he decided that it was fairly nice and rarely lost an occasion to expand it.

Hunting, however, proved to be a bit of a problem – it was easy enough to leave the city to go find game in the wilder parts and still be back before dawn, but he was much closer to humans than he would have liked. His discipline was getting better, of course, but lapses had happened often enough during the first two months he'd almost decided to leave. At least he was able to direct himself towards muggers and other criminals, but it didn't make the act any less of a murder. He'd discovered something strange, however, during one of those slips. His nose and ears had been leading him towards a struggle in one of the shadier backstreets of Belfast, where he heard a man knock what sounded like a woman into unconsciousness. When he stalked through the shadows of the alley, Harry stumbled into a thirty-year old or so man undoing his belt while leering at the form of an unconscious girl.

She was seventeen at the most, and for a moment a pure stab of anger lifted the red haze of the bloodlust from Harry's eyes. Gripping the man by the throat, the vampire pinned him against the dirty wall, but the rapist simply went limp and stopped breathing. The teenager frowned – he hadn't thought he'd gripped strong enough to kill him and was willing to swear he'd seen a flash of green in the man's eyes for an instant. His instincts wrestled the control back from him then, and coherent thought flew from his mind.

The vampire would have written off the experience as his imagination had something similar not happened barely a week later when he went out hunting in the countryside – the deer he'd been about to break the neck of simply slumped to the ground like a puppet without strings. It was only years of experience with wizardry that allowed him to sense the faint fizzle of power at the edge of his fingertips when he'd touched the animal. It wasn't quite like magic, it felt… harsher, for lack of a better term. Whatever it was he'd been doing, it was dangerous.

"_Upon turning, certain vampires are gifted with unusual talents, usually of supernatural nature. It is widely believed that those talents reflect the personalities or upbringing of the vampire's mortal life – a particularly perceptive man might find himself able to read the emotions of others, a talented orator the ability to impose his will on others through the use of words."_

The sentences from his old Defence Against the Dark Arts class were loud and clear in his memory – had he inherited something when he'd turned, then? What exactly was his ability?

Harry, determined to discover exactly what his _birthright_ – for had he not been born a second time that fateful night, by blood and venom? – was, started to experiment. For the next few weeks, he experimented with the power, trying to find what it did. It could not affect anything in his house, he discovered soon enough: it did not seem to trigger anything when he touched inanimate matter. The power stayed dormant, even if he could now feel it deep within him, simmering and ready to lash out any second. The teenager then turned to capturing animals, but the results were always the same: the very second his hand touched the creature, it died. The power itself was a bit erratic, though. It could be at his fingertips constantly for a week and then simply disappear for two no matter what he tried.

It took a while for the nature of his ability to sink in: it was, simply put, death to everything he touched. Remembering the words of an old headmaster and the whispered tale of the three Hallows, Harry shot a sardonic smile to the stars. Master of Death, was he? He laughed in the darkness, laughed desperately because it looked like destiny had caught up with him once more. The next morning he bought himself a pair of gloves and started to make preparations for his departure- he needed to learn how to control this ability of his, and he knew of only one place where he could find other vampires.

After two quiet years in Ireland, Harry Potter was bound for Volterra.

**Author's Note:**

Yup, it's time to meet the Volturi. To be honest, I'm not exactly satisfied about how this chapter came out but this will have to do. Hopefully you'll find Harry's ability interesting - if you think smell an overpowered!Harry coming, don't be afraid, there will be limitations to what he can do with it and consequences to its use.

On another note, thanks to my reviewers and here are a few answers:

SaphirePhoenix: Thank you, I was aiming to make him as realistic as possible without playing with the usual clichés we get to see. On the matter of a Edward/Harry, I redirect you towards the first Author's Note - bottom of the prologue, if you've missed it.

Dyly: As mentioned in the first Author's Note (why do I have a feeling I'll do a lot of redirecting towards there before this is done?), I don't intend to write slash. I'm pretty sure there are a few Carlisle/Harry out there, though, so you might find what you want in another fic.

Lucretzia: I do know the pairing - planned it in parallel with the plot, actually - but it's not going to be revealed for a while. Why? Because I'm a bastard like that. :)


End file.
